


Junkie

by Shakespeares_Girl



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Dream Sex, Loneliness, M/M, Nightmares, Painplay, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:46:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shakespeares_Girl/pseuds/Shakespeares_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam dreams about Kris, and sex, but it's not the happy kind of dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Junkie

**Author's Note:**

> This was started as a fill for Kink Bingo (and it still is), but it got out of hand. Originally this was supposed to be for the prompt "drugs/aphrodisiacs," but while it still has that tripped-out, off-kilter feel I was going for, there aren't any actual drugs or aphrodisiacs taken, and it turned out a lot darker than I thought it would.
> 
> Warnings: It should be noted that there is a strong element of dubious consent in this fic, possibly even crossing the line into non-consent.
> 
> Wildcard fill for kink bingo.

He's on stage. He has to be on stage, because he's painted like a neon peacock, all shades of electric blue and chartreuse and blinding yellow, shot through with hot pink and fever-purple and everything is bright and brilliant, his lungs chasing air like he's going to drown, his body heavy and hot and flying in the way only the stage can get him.

Tommy's there, bass guitar slung low, fingers picking out a low-down, dirty beat, and it's every night of Glam Nation and absolutely like nothing he's ever done before. Adam's supposed to be singing “Fever”, he can feel it in the way Tommy's playing close to him, in the way the crowd is screaming, and he picks up the lyric just in time, but he doesn't dance down the steps like he should have, instead he twirls around in place and rubs at his thighs like a strip-tease—maybe not so far off from dancing down the stairs after all.

He sings through the first verse, and then he's grabbing Tommy by the back of the neck and hauling him in for a kiss—only when their mouths meet, it isn't Tommy he's kissing anymore, it's Kris, and he remembers that he isn't supposed to be singing a concert right now, he's supposed to be naked, supposed to be getting Kris ready to be fucked, the crowd hushed and reverent as he pushes the smaller man down and kisses along his bare chest, sucks a nipple into his mouth and rubs one hand soothingly over Kris' belly, keeping him calm, keeping him still.

“It's all right, Kristopher,” he says into the microphone that he's still holding, somehow. “It's all right. You love this.”

But that's wrong too, because now Kris is the one holding Adam down, while Adam tries to writhe away from the sting of the flogger Kris keeps hitting him with, his ass and his thighs and his chest all red and puffy-swollen from the snap and sting of Kris' whip. “Please?” he begs, and Kris steps forward and kisses him, long and sweet, biting at his mouth as he pulls away again, leaving Adam's lips as sore and tender as the rest of him. “Please,” he says again, but he isn't begging anymore, knows that it doesn't matter what he asks for, he'll only get what Kris thinks he needs.

There are hands, then, gentle, careful hands that stroke him all over, rub him down and keep him in place, because the cuffs aren't doing a very good job—he didn't even notice them until just now, and it's easy enough to stretch the chain keeping him tied to the stair-stepping headboard down, and scratch his nose for a minute. But then the chain snaps taut above his head, and guitar-calloused fingers work their way inside him, two pushing into his mouth at the same time that two slide carefully, perfectly into his ass. For a shocking moment Adam thinks “Where did Tommy come from?” the familiar blonde head flashing into his vision, but it's only the noon sunlight flashing over Kris' hair, and Kris leans down and kisses him, not Tommy, and Kris pulls out three fingers from where he'd only put two and slides his cock into their place.

Adam moans, arches into the kiss, into the fucking, begging as loudly as he can, as well as he can, for Kris to fuck him harder, faster, to never stop. It seems to work, because while Kris doesn't seem to speed up or exert any more force, Adam feels fuller, feels the faster pace, feels his heart race as he rushes closer and closer to an orgasm he needs with every fiber of his soul.

“It'll hurt,” Kris warns, wrapping a hand around Adam's cock to keep him from coming just yet. “I can't stop it from hurting, Adam, but I can make you want it anyway.”

“I already want it anyway,” Adam points out, but Kris shakes his head, smiling wryly.

“You don't want it enough,” he explains, sounding deeply, profoundly sad, and then he starts jerking Adam off, only not. He's jerking, his hand is around Adam's dick, but instead of lightly calloused skin, it feels like one of Adam's spiky fingerless gloves worn backwards, so the spikes covered the palm instead of the back of the hand, and dug into Adam's flesh.

He cries out, but it still feels good, despite the pain, and he can't help arching for it. “Good,” Kris praises, and the sensation changes again, from spikes to horrible, biting pinches, like clothespins, or the year there were so many minnows in the lake at camp that—Adam never went to camp, not the kind with a lake—that they swarmed around the swimmers and bit at their feet and bottoms and knees and fingers, hoping for food and instead finding shrieking campers and splashing waves of water.

Adam shudders, still so close he can feel his entire body tingling, and Kris says “Good,” again, and this time it changes to heat, searing heat that makes Adam scream, his entire body arching in pain, but Kris just pets his dick, slides fingers over the head, and says “Good,” and now it's Brillo pads.

Everything is tender and too much, and when Kris finally leans down and says in his ear, in a whisper so loud the entire, sold-out arena can hear it, “Good, Adam, so good, you can come now,” it feels like the time Adam's dentist had misjudged the target area by a half a millimeter and sent the needle with the Novocaine slicing through nerve instead of into harmless gum and muscle, all fiery shocks and jolting, tingling pleasure that feels wrong and shaky and wrong.

He wakes up with the last jolt of electric pain, his sheets a sticky, tangled mess and his bed empty. All the pillows are pushed off the sides, and the fitted sheet is peeling up from the mattress on one corner. Adam still feels shaky and raw, and suspiciously like someone did stick a needle into a nerve, but one down near his stomach, close to his groin.

When he stumbles into the bathroom, his legs are weak and his hands are shaking, and he feels like he did that time he'd tried coke in someone's bathroom at a party, and the entire world had shaken out from under him with the high, left him flying and invincible, just in time for the crash back to earth. He'd broken a mirror that time; this time he's smart enough not to do more than splash water on his face and slump to the ground.

He dozes there, in his bathroom, the tiled floor cool against his cheek, and when he dreams, he dreams of Kris.


End file.
